The Emerald Isle (30 page)

Saturday, September 23, 1234
Athlone, the Kingdom of Connacht, Éireann

A
fter the tournament, Cahira willingly agreed to dress in her women’s clothes for the feasting to follow. Philip’s wife led her and Sorcha into a private chamber, then the lady closed the door and leaned against it with her arms crossed. Cahira did not know the woman well, but as she looked at her hostess she thought the lady’s face seemed marked by anxiety, her eyes shadowed with doubt.

“Your father must be thinking terrible things of my Philip,” the woman said, her face abruptly crumpling with unhappiness as Cahira began to change her clothes. “But you must tell him the truth—Philip has not promised this Richard anything but friendship. He has always made it clear that he is loyal to your father, the king.”

The corner of Cahira’s mouth twisted with exasperation. “I know my father values your husband,” she said, twisting the fabric of her gown until it fell smoothly over her hips, “because he would consider Philip his friend whether he was king or not.”

A blush ran like a shadow over the woman’s cheeks. “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just that people have to wonder what Philip intends by allowing the Normans to camp here at Athlone.”

“My father knows it would be hard to refuse Richard.” Cahira sat
on a low stool and dutifully lifted her chin so Sorcha could wrap the face-framing wimple around her head. “Fear not, dear lady. My father understands how difficult your situation is.”

A smile trembled over the woman’s lips. “’Tis a relief to be hearing it, Cahira. You will never know—” She flushed again. “Your example today inspired us all, even the men. ’Tis a good thing Richard says he has come in peace. For a moment, when our folk were cheering on the field, I thought we might almost be able to take the Normans if they should come against us.”

Cahira helped Sorcha position the veil that draped over her hat and wimple. “I didn’t do much.” She turned slightly and caught her hostess’s eye. “You’d have done the same thing if the idea had occurred to you. So don’t be faulting yourself for a lack of boldness.”

The lady nodded slightly, then sniffled as Cahira stood and smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt. When she was certain every garment was in its proper place, she followed her hostess back out to the great hall. The feasting had already begun, but a group of Gaels immediately cleared a space for her at their table. She slid happily onto the rough-hewn bench, nodding and smiling as the jubilant warriors passed food and drink her way.

As she nibbled from the serving bowls and made small talk with a circle of Gaelic admirers, she couldn’t help but notice that the Normans kept to themselves, occupying tables in the far corner of Philip’s hall. Richard de Burgo sat at a goodly sized table at the head of the room, with only one woman to share it. For a moment Cahira stared at the unusual pair, confused, then realized that the elegantly dressed porcelain creature who sat with him had to be his wife. She wore an exquisite gown of shimmering scarlet silk, with laced-in sleeves of bright amethyst. A high, wide hat with a veil, barbette, and wimple completely covered the lady’s hair, revealing only a pale face with sharp cheekbones, like tent poles under canvas. Her lips, uncurving gray lines, seemed never to have known a smile.

The man sitting next to Cahira followed her gaze and laughed. “Aye, and if that’s what they call a lovely lass in England, I’ll be glad
to stay home in Éireann.” He leaned closer and gave Cahira a sly wink. “Be a good lass, will you, and help the lady out into the light? A few rays o’ sunshine would do her a world of good.”

Cahira rolled her eyes and reached for a bit of bread, then chewed slowly as she continued to scan the hall for interesting faces. She finally spied Sir Colton sitting beside Oswald at a far table. Though Colton seemed to be in good spirits, Oswald sat slumped forward, his head resting on his hands, his face drawn and morose.

Cahira shivered when she felt the pressure of Colton’s dark eyes upon her. He smiled when she met his glance, but she looked quickly away, confused by the tingling in the pit of her stomach. The Normans were dangerous, everyone said so, and yet she saw no peril in Colton’s eyes—only interest and an almost eager affection.

What did it mean?

Music and merriment followed the feasting as the festivities moved outside to the courtyard. Philip’s skilled musicians—players of the fiddle, flute, and harp—gathered outside the hall. The music began with the steady beating of the
bodhrán
, and honest laughter spilled upon the late afternoon air as the Normans attempted the tricky patterns of Gaelic dances. But though the Normans seemed clumsy in their armor and heavy boots, all of them had great stamina. Though they were awkward dancers, they did not tire easily, nor did they give up.

Cahira danced with everyone who asked her to join the circle, and she was not surprised when she turned, hands on her hips, and found Colton shuffling in the line in front of her. His eyes gleamed black and dangerous in the sunlight, and he seemed not to care that his feet hopped and kicked in a completely different rhythm than everyone else’s. She threw him a deliberately flirtatious smile, then laughed and followed the advancing line of women, grateful that the exuberant dance would account for the blush that seared her cheek.

When a brilliant sunset blazoned the western sky, cloaking the hills and hedges of Athlone in a dreamy haze, Murchadh and Sorcha brought the horses up from the pasture. Cahira looked around the courtyard, half hoping she would have another chance to speak to
Colton, but he was nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, she placed her foot in Murchadh’s hand and let him hoist her onto the horse’s back.

You are a fierce fool.
She turned her horse toward the road to Rathcroghan and gathered the reins in her right hand. Why did she suddenly feel such melancholy? She had accomplished all she set out to do: She had uplifted Gaelic honor and pride before a pack of overconfident Normans. Why, then, did her heart feel strangely bereft?

“We’d best hurry,” Murchadh said, swinging his thick leg over his gelding’s back. “I wouldn’t want your father to be worrying about us out in the dark. Though ’tis unlikely that Richard would attempt to delay us, surrounded by friends as we are, I do not trust the sly scoundrel.”

“Father won’t worry about us.” Cahira uttered the words while she glanced over her shoulder. Was there anyone in the hall or the courtyard who
might
worry about her? Anyone who even cared?

Why should there be? Colton might have liked her—she thought she had seen at least a trace of favor in his eyes—but perhaps his comrades had spent the afternoon chiding him for his part in setting up their humiliation. Oswald certainly despised her. Colton might soon learn to dislike her too out of loyalty for his friend.

She swallowed hard and pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, for the wind had turned fresh and cold. Behind her, Murchadh’s mount snorted and leapt to the head of the little pack, so she gave her horse a little ripple of the reins and urged him to follow. The animal obeyed instantly and lifted his feet in a steady trot, a bone-jarring pace that just might shake some sense into her by the time they reached Rathcroghan.

Darkness rose like an underwater spring, filling first the hollows, then flooding the hills, flowing up tree trunks and hedges as darkness engulfed the ground. Murchadh and Sorcha rode side by side in front of Cahira, seeming to sense that she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Their velvet tones filled the cool air, the voices of two people who had grown infinitesimally closer over the space of an afternoon.
Cahira closed her mind to their conversation and gazed wistfully at the purple sky, wishing that someone rode beside
her.

A wind blew past her with a faint moan, bringing with it the faint but frantic sound of galloping hoofbeats. Cahira turned in the saddle, the muscles of her throat moving in a convulsive swallow as she waited to see what sort of madman had followed them. Without looking, she knew that Murchadh had turned too, with his dagger in his hand, ready to fly.

Would Richard dare attempt to capture her? Such folly was unthinkable, with her father’s best man standing guard and her kinsman’s warriors assembled at the rath, but perhaps he was more scheming than she realized.

“Cahira.” Murchadh’s voice was still and serious; to disobey was unthinkable. “Get behind me, lass.”

Fear blew down the back of her neck as she leaned forward and nudged her horse with her heel. The animal had just begun to move when she looked over her shoulder and saw the solitary rider—a man in mail armor and a blue and white surcoat. The knight reined in his horse and slowed to a walk, then lifted his hand in greeting. “Hallo! I seek Cahira o’ the Connors.”

Cahira felt her heart pound when she recognized the voice, but Murchadh was not disposed to look kindly upon any late-approaching intruder.

“Why, Sir Knight, do you hail us?” Murchadh’s tone suited the twilight; he spoke in a dark, liquid voice brimming with restrained power.

“Pardon me,
s’il vous plaît.”
The knight removed his helmet and held it close to his chest. “But I only wished to speak with the lady.”

“The lady is a king’s daughter.” Murchadh showed his teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “She cannot be approached so casually.”

“I will hear him.” Cahira turned her horse to face the knight, then took a deep breath. No matter what his reason for this unusual
encounter, the answer to her next question would either warm or break her heart. She might as well ask and hear the truth straightaway.

She looked directly at him, and felt pleased when he didn’t pull his eyes away in a grimace of embarrassment. “What brings you away from Athlone, Sir Colton?”

The knight leaned forward in his saddle and softened his smile. “Only the pleasure of your company, my lady. I knew you had an able escort, of course”—he nodded in Murchadh’s direction—“but such a rare treasure should not be entrusted to one man alone. If it please you, I would like to offer my company until you reach your home. Then I shall return to Athlone.”

Cahira thought she might burst from a sudden swell of happiness. He wanted to be with her! After all she had done on this day, still he fancied her.

A flurry of soft curses and warnings poisoned the air in Murchadh’s vicinity, but Cahira ignored his strangled noises and smiled at her bodyguard. “Murchadh, this knight will ride beside me until we reach Rathcroghan. You and Sorcha shall lead, and we will follow.”

“’Tis most irregular,” Murchadh growled.

Cahira gave him a glare fit to sear his eyebrows. “’Tis what I desire.”

Murchadh lifted his gaze to heaven as if appealing to a higher authority, then turned his horse and snorted in contempt. Sorcha gave Cahira a clear warning look, then urged her mount to follow Murchadh. Thankfully, Cahira noticed, Murchadh and Sorcha set a walking pace. Murchadh might have been in a hurry to return home, but he knew it was hard to talk to a companion while the beasts were trotting, and well nigh impossible at a canter. And it was most important that she talk to this knight.

“Aren’t you doing your horse a great disservice?” she asked when he pulled his huge mount alongside her smaller gelding. She glanced pointedly at his animal’s lathered chest. “If you would remove that heavy seat from his back and leave off that clanking tunic you knights seem so fond of—”

“This heavy seat enables me to remain on his back while I am jousting,” Colton interrupted, with no trace of irritation in his voice. “And this clanking tunic, as you call it, has saved me from many a glancing blow.”

“Truly?” Cahira gave him a look of disbelief. “It hardly seems substantial enough to withstand a battle-ax.”

His eyes lit with mischief. “I’ve not been tested with an ax, and I’ve no great desire to be. And ’tis certainly not impenetrable. I’ve seen a spear pierce a suit of mail like a knife through butter, and a direct hit with an arrow can part the links.” He glanced down at the mail sleeve covering his arm, then grinned at her. “But it sheds glancing blows as easily as a duck sheds the rain. I’m surprised you don’t have such a suit in your own wardrobe, Princess Cahira.”

Cahira felt herself blushing and looked away, rattled. Though her name sounded lovely on his lips, it did not fit at all with that peculiar English title.

“Please, call me Cahira,” she said, finding her tongue. “My father is the king of Connacht, but who knows which of my kinsmen will be king after him? We have a saying:
Is ferr fer a chiniud
—a man is better than his birth. You are whatever you make of yourself.”

He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling with gallantry. “’Tis a lovely saying, and far lovelier when you say it. There is much I’d like to learn about the Irish…about your people. I have been in this province for only a few weeks, and I am well aware of my ignorance.”

“If you would be knowing the Gaels”—Cahira raised her chin—“you might begin by knowing the land itself. Look around you.” She lifted her hand, indicating the dusky green hills, the darkening sky, and the verdant hedgerows that bordered the trail. “We have a saying—if you don’t like the weather, don’t worry, it’ll change soon enough. Our people are just as changeable, in their way. They are friendly, like the land; stubborn, like the cliffs; and sweet, like the warm wind. ’Tis not a bad thing to be Irish.”